


Baker Street

by PostcardsfromTheoryland



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Character Study, Gen, Holmes Family, Not Season/Series 03 Compliant, Paternal Lestrade, Suicidal Thoughts, discussions of drug abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-08
Updated: 2018-02-11
Packaged: 2018-12-13 00:08:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11748024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PostcardsfromTheoryland/pseuds/PostcardsfromTheoryland
Summary: Sometimes, baked goods magically appear in the kitchen.They're delicious, and they have a tendency to show up whenever Sherlock has done something Not Good, so John isn't going to start complaining. Though he does wonder how exactly Sherlock managed to befriend such a talented baker.





	1. Emulsify

**Author's Note:**

> I started writing this fic a _very_ long time ago (note the "not series 3 compliant" tag...), but I've finally got it to a place where I'm happy with it and so I figured I'd start posting. I'll be adding a few tags as I add chapters, so be mindful of those.
> 
> Many thanks to [Pippip_Hurray](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Pippip_hurray/) for the beta!

**29 April 2010**

Sometimes, baked goods magically appeared in the kitchen.

It began after Sarah had finally broken up with him. If John was completely honest with himself, it was a long time coming but still frustrating. And then, to make matters worse, he’d gotten into a row with Sherlock that same evening. Bastard hadn’t seemed to understand why this was a problem, and it was his own damn fault, anyways. Sherlock and his Chinese smuggler acrobats and his aluminium crutch and his crazy Irish bombers. John had stormed out in a huff and got spectacularly drunk at the pub down the street. It was late when he got back, but Sherlock was still up, banging away in the kitchen. There was probably going to be frogspawn in his mug again.

On the table sat an exquisite red velvet cake. For a second, John entertained the idea that Sarah had sent it in an effort to get back together, but the pristine inscription in light blue icing made it clear who had purchased it.

_Sorry your dull girlfriend dumped you_

John couldn’t help laughing, picturing Sherlock telling some poor, confused baker what to write. Still, the gesture was appreciated, and the break-up really _hadn’t_ been Sherlock’s fault, anyhow.

When the detective emerged from his bedroom half an hour later to find John eating cake for breakfast, he looked particularly pleased.

The next appearance of the Apology Baked Goods was even faster. John went to “get some air” after Sherlock set fire to a pair of his jumpers, and when he’d returned less than three hours later, there was a banoffee pie on the sideboard. John had to wonder if Sherlock had that bakery on standby for whenever he did ridiculous things.

There was a particularly perplexing incident in which several homemade custard creams materialized in the sitting room seemingly of their own volition. John wracked his brain for anything he’d said that might have triggered Sherlock into calling up his bakery contacts, but there was nothing. Which meant that either Sherlock was feeling guilty for something John hadn’t noticed yet or he was preemptively apologising for something he was about to do. John wasn’t sure which option should concern him more.

He stalked through the flat while Sherlock was nuking kidneys or something equally ridiculous at Bart’s, but couldn’t find anything out of place. And when Sherlock returned without trying to sneak more body parts into the fridge or drugging his tea, looking particularly guileless, John became even more suspicious.

“There are some biscuits on the table,” John mentioned in what he hoped was a neutral tone. Maybe Sherlock would be distracted enough to admit _why_ , exactly, they were there.

“Yes,” was his completely unhelpful response.

Eventually, when nothing out of the ordinary happened for a full week, John admitted defeat. Maybe Mrs Hudson had brought them up, or a grateful client had sent them over. There were other bakers in London, after all.

The most confusing instance was when John woke up in hospital a couple months later with a particularly nasty concussion. Nothing happened while he was still in hospital, though Sherlock made intermittent appearances (mostly outside of the typical visiting hours), still finishing up their case with Lestrade. But when John finally returned home, there was a massive tray of cupcakes waiting for him, each iced with a letter.

_I am sorry the suspect bludgeoned you with a crowbar but honestly you should have been more careful_

They were delicious - at least four different flavours - but there was a limit to the amount of cupcakes John could eat. Sherlock didn’t seem to mind that he took a few of them to the surgery with him, and Lestrade picked up a couple when he went to get John’s official statement, but he drew the line at Mycroft. Sherlock’s brother had barged into their flat, took one glance at the cupcakes, and looked more smug than John had thought possible. Sherlock had bodily shoved him out of the door before he could say anything, but allowed Anthea to take two of the remaining coconut chocolate cakes as long as she was silent about it. She actually _winked_ at them as she left, which was probably the most bizarre thing about the whole experience.

He’d always meant to ask where Sherlock went for his Apology Baked Goods. If nothing else, John wanted to give that baker a handshake and a pat on the back for dealing with all his flatmate’s strange requests and maybe buy a few biscuits whenever Sherlock did considerate things. Positive reinforcement and all that.

But then Moriarty happened. And John never got the chance.


	2. Blind Bake

**28 September 2005**

“Lestrade,” he groaned from his current position, sprawled on the sitting room floor. “My mind is rotting. Don’t you have anything in this godforsaken flat for mental stimulation?”

“I’m not giving you any drugs,” Lestrade intoned from the kitchen table, nursing a coffee. Sherlock struggled to sit up.

“That implies that you have them to give. Shit police officer you are.” Lestrade sighed, rubbing both hands over his face. Somehow, the more sober Sherlock got, the more stressful this became.

“I don’t have any drugs, and even if I did, you couldn’t have them. Why don’t you just watch telly or something?” An affronted sneer was all he got in response. “Or take a nap? God knows you haven’t actually slept in ages.”

“You just want to be rid of me,” he said, voice muffled as he turned over and planted his face into the rug. Wonderful. This was about to be the fifth time in two days that they’d had this argument.

“Listen, Sherlock. I can’t pretend that I’m enjoying this, but I don’t actually want to throw you out, alright? What I want is to get you clean.”

“Then stop gawking and help me! Give me something!”

“Your brother said no cases.” And Greg was trying desperately to stick to that rule, but his breaking point was closer than he’d like to admit.

“Then what is the fucking point of you?”

“The point of me is to make sure you don’t bloody overdose and die!”

“Why does that matter?!”

That wasn’t the response Lestrade had been expecting. He’d thought Sherlock would have scathingly told him that he was always in control and that only idiots took more than they could handle. The apparent disregard for his own life had effectively derailed Lestrade’s frustration.

“You...what?”

Sherlock’s eyes widened and he scrambled upright. “I didn’t mean that.”

“Sherlock?”

“I - don’t tell my brother. Please, don’t tell Mycroft. He’ll never leave me alone if you do.”

“Sherlock, are you okay?”

“Am I going to off myself in the next five minutes, do you mean?” he snarled, tugging at his hair. “Forget I said anything.”

“No chance,” Lestrade countered, approaching him slowly. “Sherlock, you know there are people you could talk to about this? Therapists, that sort of thing?” Sherlock scoffed and turned away.

“Even if I could manage to find a mildly intelligent therapist, my brother would obtain transcripts of our sessions in a heartbeat.”

“Well, you could talk to me, if you want.”

“Why?” Sherlock asked incredulously.

“Because you just admitted that you don’t care if you accidentally kill yourself! Damnit Sherlock, I’m concerned!” Sherlock stared him up and down, giving Lestrade the awful feeling that he was a corpse at a crime scene, before turning away.

“Your concern is noted, but. I can’t.”

“It’s alright,” he said. He’d been expecting that, anyways. “I’m here if you, you know.” Sherlock nodded but he looked miserable, curled up on the ugly shag rug and staring at the wall. “Come on, get off the floor and we’ll do something.”

“Cold case files?” Sherlock asked, perking up just a bit.

“No. I couldn’t use anything you give me in this state anyways.”

“Any bits of evidence lying around? Experiments? Chemicals?” He managed to haul himself off the floor and to walk into the kitchen as if he expected to find fingers in with the vegetables.

“For God’s sake, Sherlock, I don’t keep body parts in my fridge like some people. If you’re that interested in the kitchen, why don’t you bake a bloody cake?” And, honestly, the glint Sherlock got in his eye should not have been so terrifying.

* * *

“There,” Lestrade pointed at a promising looking picture. “Devil's food cake.”

“Devils?” Sherlock asked. “What have they got to do with anything?”

“I think it’s supposed to be the opposite of angel food.” He received another blank stare, so Lestrade read through the recipe again. Flour, sugar, eggs, milk- he must have all that lying around somewhere. Some nameless minion of Mycroft’s had restocked the kitchen when they’d dropped Sherlock off at his flat. It was the chocolate ingredients that he may not have. Why would a recipe even need two different types of chocolate? “This might be a little hard.”

“The book belonged to your ex-girlfriend, it can’t be that difficult,” Sherlock said as he tugged down a large, very dusty mixing bowl, pinning Lestrade with a Look.

“It’s just dust,” he argued.

“You realise dust is mostly made up of dead human skin, correct? I wonder if it’s cannibalism to consume baked goods with dead skin in them…”

Lestrade just ignored him (it was hardly the most disturbing thing he’d heard Sherlock say) and wondered if he could maybe convince Mycroft to send them a courier with baking chocolate and cocoa powder... That was a bit excessive. His neighbor liked to bake though; maybe he could borrow some stuff from her. Of course, that meant leaving Sherlock in his flat. Alone.

“I won’t bolt,” Sherlock said mildly, still inspecting the bowl.

“You know your brother will kill me if you disappear on my watch.”

“Yes.”

“Great. Just so we’re clear.” Lestrade left him with instructions to wash the mixing bowl, hoping that maybe the novelty of cleaning something would keep Sherlock suitably distracted. 

It was a short trip to old Mrs Benoit; she lived just down the hall, but she loved to chat. The second she heard him ask for some baking chocolate (she thought he was caring for a sick nephew) she was regaling him with stories about growing up in the middle of Paris. By the time he’d finally figured out how to end the conversation, twenty minutes had passed and he was sprinting back toward his flat. Hands full of supplies, he shouldered the door open, amazed when Sherlock was still where he’d left him. And actually washing the dishes.

“Ah, I can smell by that particular brand of perfume that your neighbor is having sex with a younger man,” he said casually, cleaning out what looked like - yes, it was.

“Why are you washing the slow cooker?” Lestrade asked in confusion. “I didn’t even know I _had_ a slow cooker. Are you expecting we’ll need it to bake the cake?” 

Sherlock startled, glancing down at his still occupied hands. “Oh.”

“Did you at least wash the mixing bowl?” Sherlock gestured to the other end of the counter with a soapy sponge; the mixing bowl was indeed nestled in a large pile of sparkling dishes. Hell, Sherlock had managed to clean most of the cookware in the flat while Lestrade had been gone. Maybe he’d missed his calling.

Lestrade gently pried the slow cooker out of Sherlock’s hands, replacing it with a container of flour. Best to keep him busy.

“I need you to sift this.”

“How...do I do that?” Sherlock asked reluctantly, and Lestrade found himself wondering, not for the first time, what on earth his childhood had been like.

“Didn’t you ever help your mum bake when you were a lad?”

“God, no. My mother couldn’t bake to save her life. The one time she attempted it, the end result had the consistency of sheetrock. Not even Mycroft would eat it.” And God, that was another image, wasn’t it? A small, young, goon-less version of Mycroft Holmes. 

“Well, no time like the present, eh? Take this strainer and put the flour through it. We need three cups.” He’d been expecting some snippy argument about it - it would be par for the course, really - but Sherlock just gave a little nod and started in on the task. Lestrade only realised he was staring at him when Sherlock looked back at him in confusion.

“What, am I doing it wrong?”

“No, nothing. Just, you, docilely sifting flour in my kitchen.”

“It’s like chemistry,” Sherlock shrugged. “Of course you want the particles to be uniform.”

True to form, Sherlock spent about three times as long as was necessary, putting the flour through the strainer twice before he was finally satisfied enough to hand it off to Lestrade. Then, of course, he proceeded to pester Lestrade for the next step in the recipe. Couldn’t sit still for more than about four seconds, that one.

“Give me the chocolate; it’s supposed to be melted,” he demanded, trying to reach around Lestrade for a clean pan.

“How about maybe I do that, actually,” Lestrade suggested, carefully moving the chocolate to the side.

“You think I don’t know how to use the stove.”

“I _know_ you haven’t got a clue how to use the stove. I also know that you haven’t actually slept in three days. If you’re going to faint any time soon, I’d prefer you didn’t burn yourself. Your brother would probably have me disappeared. You can beat these eggs, instead.”

By the time Sherlock had beaten the eggs within an inch of their life (and really, why had he never thought to try this before? With any luck, Sherlock would tire himself out and sleep through the night), Lestrade had the chocolate melted and the rest of the ingredients ready to go and had pulled down the mixer. Sherlock eyed it suspiciously, and Lestrade couldn’t help but agree with him. The thing was ancient and it looked like it was about to fall apart before they even turned it on, but Charlotte had taken her good mixer with her.

“Now what?”

“It just says ‘combine,’” Lestrade frowned at the recipe. “Well that’s sort of unhelpful.” Sherlock only shrugged at him and proceeded to dump everything into the bowl. Lestrade had the feeling that things were going to end badly, but before he could voice any of his concerns Sherlock flipped the mixer on as high as it could go.

And yes. Things did end badly.

“I think we need to redo the recipe,” Lestrade said as he finally managed to turn the damned thing off.

“Why?”

“Because half of the ingredients are on the floor, Sherlock. And the walls. And us. I think there are eggs in your hair.”

At least the second time assembling the batter seemed to go more smoothly, though he’d had to make another sheepish trip to Mrs Benoit for another batch of chocolate. But they did it in the end, Greg taking control of the mixer and starting slowly while he allowed Sherlock to preheat the oven.

“Alright, now I need you to take this extra bit of butter and grease a pan.” Sherlock just nodded again, and Lestrade thought he could get used to this bizarrely obedient version of Sherlock Holmes. Although when he looked over, it was to see Sherlock up to his elbows in butter and halfway inside a large dutch oven. “Pan, Sherlock.”

“This is a pan.”

“That’s a pot.”

“Semantics.” If either one of them had had more sleep, Greg probably would have tried to convince him about the differences between pots and pans. What was the worst thing that could happen? He went ahead and poured the mix into the freshly-greased pot, managed to shove the thing in the oven, and then turned on the timer.

“Now what?” Sherlock was looking at him expectantly and this was definitely the part Lestrade had been dreading. Sherlock’s patience was nonexistent on a good day. Sleep-deprived and going through withdrawal, there was no way he’d make it until the cake was done.

“Here,” he said, thinking fast and shoving another pot at Sherlock. “Why don’t you make a glaze for it.”

“Where’s the recipe?”

“You’re a chemist. Figure it out.” That terrible glint was back in Sherlock’s face, and Lestrade was already mourning what his kitchen was going to look like after they were all finished. At least Sherlock was doing something, he thought wearily. He switched on the coffeemaker for another cup, debating about asking Mycroft to send someone over to clean the kitchen tonight. That was definitely a fair price for keeping his little brother entertained and sober.

And then Sherlock somehow exploded the pot of melted sugar and chocolate.

His ceiling was never going to be the same.

* * *

Mycroft Holmes had no idea what he was going to find at DS Lestrade’s flat. The man had volunteered to take Sherlock off his hands for a couple days, which should have been, by all accounts, relaxing. Of course, Sherlock had been texting him horrible invectives, jibes about his weight, his job, his knowledge of the Javanese language, his taste in neckties, and virtually anything else he could think of (but that was to be expected, really). It was only because Mycroft had largely learned to tune it out that it took him an unacceptable twenty minutes to notice when it had stopped. Maybe Sherlock had finally succumbed to exhaustion and fallen asleep, or DS Lestrade had sedated him (a course of action Mycroft himself had been considering for quite some time). Or perhaps, Mycroft thought as he looked at his phone for the third time in a minute, his brat of a baby brother had realised he could cause more consternation with silence than whinging. But then the silence went on for an hour. And then two hours.

He’d cancelled his evening meeting, images of Lestrade locked in a room, possibly injured, while Sherlock roamed the streets in search of drugs pushing him out of his office. He’d put every emergency service and agency he could think of on standby, took a deep breath, and opened the door.

Laughter. His baby brother was laughing. And not the derisive chuckle that normally precluded a sharp verbal lashing. No, this was carefree, full-bodied laughter that he hadn’t heard since before Mycroft had left for university. Bewildered, he moved farther into the flat, finding Lestrade and Sherlock, still laughing, in the kitchen and covered in what he sincerely hoped was icing sugar.

“What on earth…?” Lestrade jerked away like he’d done something wrong, and Mycroft started to have doubts about the white powder. Sherlock, on the other hand, went to grab a worryingly large knife and cut a huge slice out of the equally huge chocolate...thing on the table. He plated it with all the precision of a drunk man and held it out to Mycroft with a manic smile.

“Here, there are approximately 200 calories per ounce. Enjoy.” Mycroft gave the rest of the cake an apprehensive glance and realised just how much had already been eaten and Dear Lord, his brother was on a sugar high. Well, he supposed, it was better than the alternative high. He stared at the thing in his hands, unsure of what exactly to do with it, before Lestrade handed him a fork.

“It tastes awful,” he said in a low whisper, “but he’s weirdly proud of it, so try to pretend.”

And it was awful - quite possibly the densest, most overly sweet cake he’d ever eaten, and the consistency was suspiciously close to rubber - but Sherlock was definitely watching his reaction out of the corner of his eyes. Mycroft doubted his reaction would have fooled a completely sober, top-of-his-game Sherlock, but the strained smile was good enough for this mentally and physically exhausted version of his brother. In fact, it seemed to spur Sherlock into going for another slice.

“Ah, no,” Lestrade said, taking the knife out of his hands and giving him a cup of something that had been sitting on the counter. “How about you drink your milk instead.”

“I’m not a child,” Sherlock pouted, though he still accepted the cup.

“Of course not. I bet there are some people on the shopping network you could go deduce,” he suggested as he nudged Sherlock in the direction of the television. Once Sherlock was out of the kitchen, he sighed and slumped against the counter. “You want a tea or coffee or something?”

“Coffee.” And then, in an attempt to get the taste of that awful cake out of his mouth, “Black.” Lestrade chuckled in understanding as he put more grounds into the machine. Mycroft vaguely noted that this was about to be Lestrade’s seventh cup of coffee for the day. It was a bit impressive, actually - Mycroft would have needed at least ten at this point.

“I’ll have some people come over to...take care of the remnants of the cake. And the very mature food fight.”

“Sherlock started it,” Greg muttered.

“I’m aware, but I assume you’d like your counters to be clean at some point within the next week.” Lestrade just grunted in response.

“Did you need something?”

“Simply a spot-check. The radio silence from my brother was becoming worrisome.”

“Oh, yeah. That’s my fault, actually. I took his mobile away after he threw it at my head.” They both glanced over at the thud from the living room to see Sherlock passed out on the sofa, the empty cup falling from his limp hand.

“I’m sorry.”

“Whatever for?” Mycroft asked softly, still focused on his brother.

“I’m not very good at this whole ‘caretaker’ business. He still seems barely a step away from going out to find more cocaine; I feel like we’ve both been shouting at each other nonstop, and all I got him to eat so far today was a piece of awful chocolate cake.”

“More than I got him to eat while he was at my townhouse,” Mycroft shrugged. “I discovered very early on with Sherlock that one often has to adjust one’s standards. The very fact that he is still here and still sober shows you’re doing a better job than the two previous rehabilitation centers we tried.”

“Hm.” Lestrade didn’t seem convinced.

“You’re good with him,” Mycroft said quietly. “You’re good _for_ him.” He gave Sherlock one last glance before he picked up his umbrella and headed for the door. “Although I’ll let you give him a few cold cases if you can convince him to never try to make chocolate cake again.”


	3. Infuse

**6 February 2009**

Sherlock crept back into the house through the backdoor to sneak into the guest room and update his blog when he noticed there was a light on in the kitchen. Odd, that. Usually Mrs Hudson was already asleep at this time of night. Still, it shouldn’t be anything concerning. Frank Hudson and the worst of his goons were safely behind bars in the local precinct, and he’d ensured that all the bit players in the scheme had no designs on exacting revenge. Perhaps Mrs Hudson had simply got up for some tea and forgot to turn the light off.

And then there was the sound of breaking china and a gasp from across the hall, and Sherlock found himself sprinting into the kitchen. Luckily, the room seemed to be devoid of nefarious characters - just Mrs Hudson looking shaken and a broken glass bowl on the floor.

“Oh, Sherlock. I didn’t realise you were back.”

“I just got in,” he explained. “Is everything…?”

“It’s fine,” she said, clearly embarrassed. “I just got lost in thought a little and dropped this. Don’t come in, dear. There’s glass on the floor.” Yes, he could see that. He ought to just go back to the guest room and let her work out whatever negative emotions she was going through. Instead, he fetched the broom and dustpan from the cupboard. Martha looked at him like he’d grown a third arm and yes, perhaps this was slightly out of character for him. But now that he was on guard for potential threats, he didn’t really want to leave her alone - especially not when she seemed this anxious.

“What were you going to make?”

“Oh, just some shortbreads. Really, dear, you don’t need to do that. You ought to go to sleep, it’s nearly one in the morning.”

“I’m not tired,” he said truthfully. Besides, he could always update the blog later. “Do you want any help?”

“You’re just a gangly little thing. What do you know about baking?”

“Mrs Hudson!” he said in mock offense, she shoved him in the arm. “You’re an exotic dancer with a drug cartel-”

“Typing, I was just typing.”

“And you’re surprised that a detective knows how to bake biscuits?”

“I've nothing against detectives with hobbies. I’m surprised that a man confused about where his morning tea comes from knows how to bake biscuits.” He threw the last of the glass shards in the bin and washed his hands before wordlessly gesturing for the flour she was about to start sifting.

“If you insist,” she demurred, but Sherlock could tell she was pleased. Startled, but pleased. He really didn’t mind; it was a chance to observe someone in the kitchen who actually knew what she was doing, and he’d never made shortbread before. Well, he had, but it had been a couple years ago and the result had been...less than ideal. Martha, for her part, got over the shock quickly and set him to work going through the opening steps of the recipe.

“It’s nice to have someone to discuss _proper_ biscuits with, you know.” Sherlock raised an eyebrow at her over the butter he was folding into the batter. “You haven’t had an American biscuit yet, have you. Nasty things, it’s like eating a mouthful of salty chalk. I’m not going to miss them, that’s for sure!”

Was he supposed to respond to that? Comfort her? Mrs Hudson was easy-going enough and had ignored a few social gaffes from him so far, but that seemed like an opening that a normal person would take.

“Is there, er, I mean are there other things you will miss?” Martha quirked an amused smile at his question.

“I’m not distraught as all that, you know. I’m not going to miss Frank, if that’s what you’re asking.” It hadn’t been, but that was good to know. “Some of the food though, I suppose. Grits; they’re lovely. Oh and the weather; some sun now and again is nice. Disney World is cute, too.” His revulsion must have shown on his face because she elbowed him in the ribs. “I said it was cute, not that I was going to drag you there once we popped these in the oven. God, what a sight that would be! Maybe I should drag you over there.” That would probably amuse her, maybe cheer her up. Should he offer, as horrendous as the idea of willingly surrounding himself with screaming children and disproportionately drawn cartoon characters was?

“Is that, eh...”

“Sherlock Holmes, I told you, I’m not going to break. I don’t need you to suffer through a theme park for my sake. This is already more than I was expecting.”

“I really don’t mind. Well, I mean I _would_ mind about Disney World, but this is acceptable.”

“Oh, acceptable. Such an honour.” He cringed, realising how he’d come off before he understood that she was ribbing him.

“Nice, I mean. I’ve never baked before with someone else who actually knew what they were doing.”

“No, I can’t really picture your family as the ‘gather round the kitchen and make sponge cake’ types,” she said with a laugh as she measured out some vanilla extract. Sherlock noted with some approval that it was at least not imitation, though an actual vanilla pod would have been better. “Who did teach you, then?”

“I did.” He cringed again when it came out sounding snobbish, but Mrs Hudson didn’t seem to care.

“Like those bloody science experiments you ruined my antique table with?”

“Well…”

“Oh, don’t worry,” she clucked. “That was Frank’s mother’s table anyways. She hated me. Good riddance, I say. It would have been impossible to get it back to London anyhow.”

Despite himself, Sherlock was enjoying this. He _liked_ Mrs Hudson a lot, actually. He hadn’t realised that interacting with some people could be pleasant. Pleasant enough that he had spaced out while she was asking him to get the salt.

“Sorry, sorry, I - yes. Here.”

“Are you sure you’re alright, dear? I knew you should have gone to bed! It’s not healthy, you know.”

“I’m fine. It’s just -” he waved his hand vaguely, but she seemed to understand, patting his shoulder.

“Yes, sometimes it just all gets to be a bit much, doesn’t it? The baking is a nice way to focus, though. Is that why you started?” Not exactly, but saying ‘I was trying to distract myself from shooting cocaine into my arms’ in front of an ex-drug baron’s soon to be ex-wife was probably not a good idea.

“Ish,” he supplied instead. “It wasn’t why I started, but it is why I kept going.”

By the time the biscuits were coming out of the oven, he was feeling a bit tired. Maybe his mind would stay quiet enough for a few hours of rest after this. Mrs Hudson was already shoving him in the direction of the spare room.

They’d returned to London when the loose ends of the case had been tied up and then parted ways, though Martha left him with a stern reminder that she could do with an extra pair of hands in the kitchen now and again. When Sherlock showed up at her doorstep a month later, she looked so shocked that Sherlock found himself feeling self-conscious. Hadn’t she wanted him to come?

But then Mrs Hudson was pulling him into the flat and sitting him down at the table for a full English, resolutely ignoring Sherlock’s insistences that he wasn’t hungry and that it was four in the afternoon anyways. And then he just kept going - at least once a month, usually two or three times. For all that she liked to chatter, Martha Hudson was an extremely interesting woman.

“Sherlock, what is your flat like?”

“Ghastly,” he answered, filters now completely down with her. “There are holes in the walls and ceiling that I didn’t put there, three different pipes are leaking, and I’m convinced the windowpanes are merely for decoration and not to keep the rain and cold out.”

“You ought to break your lease,” she needled from her position in front of the stove, stirring a batch of caramels. “Find a better place.”

“Easier said than done. At least this landlord hasn’t kicked me out yet. My last three places made it less than a full month before they evicted me. The most recent one wasn’t even my fault. Apparently, Mycroft sending MI5 to my doorstep makes me an ‘untrustworthy tenant.’”

“That brother of yours... I’ve half a mind to give him a talking to. Him and your landlord.”

Several months later, after Sherlock having missed several of the clues and hints she’d been dropping, Mrs Hudson informed Sherlock that he was moving into 221 Baker Street. No arguments.

It was another three months after that, Sherlock making his way into her kitchen for a little quiet while John and Lestrade shouted at the football match upstairs, when Mrs Hudson asked if he wanted to learn a few recipes of hers. Some had been passed down through the generations, and a few she’d created herself. She didn’t have any children of her own, you see, and her sister’s children were both complete rubbish in the kitchen, and well, what’s the point of writing the perfect macaron recipe if you’ve got no one to give it to?

“Mrs Hudson, I would be honoured.”


	4. Proof

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit of a short chapter but the good news is there are just a few edits to go until the rest of this fic is ready to post!
> 
> ...and now back to the regularly-scheduled exam grading....

**15 August 2010**

It was chemistry. It was alchemy. It was the memorization of hundreds of formulas and reactions that required exact precision. It was the application of knowledge into a learned skill generally considered desirable by the general population. It was clarity during cases and focus in the downtimes between them. It was some form of sustenance, at least, when he’d forgotten to eat during an experiment or when his senses couldn’t handle an entire meal.

It was, he suspected, an actual lifesaver in the form of flour and sugar and ovens and stoves.

And it was hellishly embarrassing.

Lestrade, to his credit, seemed to accept that. Perhaps he knew the moment that the other Yarders learned about his little hobby (and God, the taunting that Donovan and Anderson would bring down on him if they ever heard) that he’d be done with it and back to life before. In return for his silence, Sherlock smuggled biscuits and cakes into Lestrade’s office at least once a week. The only comments Lestrade ever made were an early one that Sherlock seemed to be improving, and one memorable occasion when he informed Sherlock, in no uncertain terms, that he absolutely _hated_ pears.

Right then. No more pear cobbler for Lestrade.

So Lestrade knew he had quite a bit to lose should he ever decide to spill the beans. Half the time, the pastries and biscuits Sherlock brought in were the only things the man ate for lunch. And breakfast.

Mrs Hudson was also happy to keep quiet about his tendency to bake biscuits in the downtime between cases as long as he agreed to continue making his way into her kitchen from time to time - an incredibly easy thing to agree to do.

But Mycroft. Mycroft was a completely different story.

He always seemed to be moments away from setting off a London-wide report about Sherlock’s less than mysterious hobby, and his ridiculous diet meant that Sherlock couldn’t bribe him with Bakewell tarts or cornettos like Lestrade. If anything, masking all evidence of the activities seemed to be the key to making Mycroft shut up. You’d think the man would be happy that his little brother had managed to find a diversion that kept him away from the drugs. But then again, they were Holmeses, which meant the normal sibling rule book went out the window.

John was a bit of an enigma. He never really commented on the baked goods one way or the other. He was pleased enough whenever Sherlock baked him cakes and biscuits if he’d done something that was Not Good, but he seemed to rather ignore them on any other occasion. Sherlock wondered whether “it’s all fine” extended to culinary endeavours, as well, or if John went out to the pub with Lestrade and complained about Sherlock getting almond extract all over the floor and using the mixer in the middle of the night.

As embarrassing as it was, though, he really didn’t intend to stop. It was useful. A means to an end. A tidy, fairly easy solution to a problem that had plagued him throughout his life.

And if he did actually enjoy it, well, that was his own secret.


End file.
